


Table For One

by nothingeverlost



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingeverlost/pseuds/nothingeverlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colette had not warned her about Mr. Gold.  That first day it was the soup that he sent back, for being too cold.  Belle tried not to have a problem with that, but there was steam still coming off the bowl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Six Months of Rumbelle prompt from bad-faery "Belle is a chef. Gold is her restaurant’s pickiest customer."

The first time Belle French heard the name Mr. Gold she’d been the new head chef at La Ratatouille for three days. The week previous she’d shadowed Colette Gusteau, but now the woman, her husband who everyone affectionately called Linguini, and their seven year old son Remy were off for Europe and a year long sabbatical, leaving the kitchens in Belle’s hands. 

Colette had not warned her about Mr. Gold.

That first day it was the soup that he sent back, for being too cold. Belle tried not to have a problem with that, but there was steam still coming off the bowl. Abigail, gentle soul that she was, just shrugged when she brought it back in. “It’s Gold. You never can tell with him.”

The following week the leg of lamb was sent back for being overcooked and not seasoned to his liking. A week after that it was the steak tartare aller-retour being underdone, a ridiculous claim considering that it was steak tartare. After a month Belle took to preparing Gold’s meals personally; her staff didn’t need the stress of worrying what the man would complain about next.

In four months of once weekly visits there were exactly two times in which nothing was returned. The whole kitchen seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief on those days. Belle was the exception; she hated to have her space so dominated by a man she hadn’t even met, one who had no right to exert so much control. She was damn proud of the food that she served, and the people who worked under her were quickly becoming an adopted family. For a woman who had a father and no one else that meant something.

The ratatouille was the last straw. No one, in the entire nine years La Ratatouille had been opened, had complained about their house dish. The ratatouille was perfect. The ratatouille was a dish that people drove two hours and stood in line for the chance to taste. Most importantly the ratatouille was Remy Gusteau’s favorite dish, and if he heard that someone had complained about meal that his parents had re-created for him the darling boy would be heartbroken.

It was the last straw.

“I’ll take that.” David, the head waiter, stood just inside the kitchen door. He hadn’t even said anything yet but she knew. Oh, she knew.

“He’s in a foul mood tonight, Chef,” David cautioned. He and his wife, pastry chef Mary Margaret, were the oldest of the staff. Though too young to actually be her parents they liked to play the part. Their daughter Emma helped out washing dishes and taking out the trash on weekends, and was something of a little sister. Belle was staying at the Gusteau’s house while they were gone, but one or two of the Nolan clan came by a few times during the week with poor excuses that really just meant they were keeping an eye on her.

“Good, then I won’t feel guilty for pouring this all over his head.” She held up the plate she’d taken from him.

“Belle,” he said in a tone that was much more like the one he used when Emma was about to act out, and nothing like a waiter speaking to a head chef. Belle laughed.

“You can ground me later, dad, and take money from my allowance to pay for his dry cleaning.” She was through the swinging doors before he had a chance to respond, and headed straight for Gold’s table. She’d never met the man, but Ruby had pointed him out through the window the third time he’d sent food back; he was a hard man to forget.

“There’s nothing wrong with this.” She dropped the plate in front of him, on the table where it belonged even if she’d been a little rougher than the needed to be. The fact that a drop or two splattered his tie didn’t bother her; she could have done far worse.

“That’s where we disagree, dearie. I find it unpalatable.” He held a glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, Cuvée Barderini in his hand; the man more than likely spent more money annually on wine then she earned in a year. She did have to admit, to herself at least, that the one thing she couldn’t fault the man with was being stingy with his money. Despite his tendency to snap and send food back to the kitchens, and sometimes even make waitresses cry, he tipped well. With the exception of Ashley, who refused to go near him, no one refused to be his server.

“You have ordered the ratatouille before. You’ve never complained about it, or refused to eat it. No one’s ever complained about, as a matter of fact, and that’s not going to change under my watch. You’ll eat this and be happy about it, Mr. Gold, or you can eat somewhere else.” She was trying very hard to keep her voice low and her temper in check, but it was hard. He, unredemptive man that he seemed to be, was smirking at her.

“There’s no such thing as perfection, especially over such a long time period. Records fail, and this streak of your seems to be one of them. I will not eat, and refuse to pay for, a sub-par meal.” There was, surprisingly, no scorn in his voice. No hostility. He simply spoke as if the quality of the meal was a fact, and he was pointing out the obvious. Belle refused to accept it.

Gold always ate alone, but of course there was no such thing as a table set for one. Restaurants, and life, were designed for people who were social creatures. Belle picked up the fork from the second place setting and used it to scoop up a bite of the barely touched entree, careful to get zucchini, tomato, eggplant and sauce alike in order to judge every component of the meal. She chewed slowly, allowing the food to rest against her tongue before swallowing. There was not a single thing wrong with it; in fact there was no way of telling that she’d made it rather than Colette herself. Though Belle had added some of her own special dishes to the menu this was a Gusteau speciality and remained untouched. “If that is sub-par, Mr. Gold, then McDonald’s is gourmet. Perhaps you’d prefer to eat there?”

“Perhaps you should learn a thing or two about humility, if you wish to retain any customers.” He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his wine. Belle almost took a step back from the intensity of his stare. “You’re the girl Chef Colette took under her wing, aren’t you?”

“I am Chef French, the _woman_ hired as Chef de cuisine for the duration of the Gusteau’s sabbatical. I am Le Cordon Bleu trained and have the complete faith of not only the family but also the staff and, with the exception of yourself, the patrons of La Ratatouille.” This might be the first restaurant that she’d run, but she’d been working towards this moment for years. No cocky, insulting, arrogant man was going to ruin it for her. “While I am here this is my kitchen and my restaurant. You can either eat the food you have ordered or you can find the door. Your server will be out shortly to show you the dessert menu or clear your table, and frankly it doesn’t matter to me which one you chose. Have a nice evening, Mr. Gold.”

It wasn’t until she was walking back to the kitchen that she noticed half the restaurant was looking at her. Thank the gods it was only a Tuesday night, late enough that only half the tables were full and there were no critics in the room. She’d never forgive herself if her temper resulted in negative reviews for the restaurant that had been left in her charge.

“Good going Chef.” Ruby, thankfully, kept her voice low but there was no hiding the megawatt grin. 

“There was nothing good about that.” Never in her time working in the kitchens, starting as a dishwasher ten years ago, had she spoken to a customer like that. There was nothing to do about it now, though. She nodded at the tray the waitress was carrying, once again marveling at the balance the woman had. Not only was the tray full but she was dressed in her usual spiked heels. “I think you have a table to take care of.”

“Yes, Chef.” She headed for her table at a pace that would have had Belle, had she tried the same thing, tripping over her own feet.

“Are you alright?” Belle, resisting the urge to sag against the wall, smiled wanly at Mary Margaret.

“I really fucked up, didn’t I?” She knew the other woman didn’t approve of her tendency towards foul language any more than she allowed Emma to use it, but Belle was too tired to care. 

“I’m sure you were provoked, sweetie. But maybe next time you should let David deal with him?” Mary Margaret pulled her towards the office, where a plate of scallops and a glass of wine was waiting. 

“I’m not so sure there is going to be a next time, not with Mr. Gold. That’s easily one-fifty a week I’ve lost us, if you count his wine.” The smell of the butter on the scallops was making her mouth water; it had been a long time since lunch.

“One customer is not going to break us, Chef. We’re doing fine.” Mary Margaret, ever the parent, picked up the fork and handed it to her. “Fifteen minutes at least. You need a break, and you need food. We’ve got the kitchen and the front of house covered.”

Belle, seeing the wisdom in her orders, did not protest.

II

He ate the ratatouille, which might not have been perfect but was far more than the sub-par he’d labeled it. He finished his wine which was, as usual, perfect. Hopper, the sommelier at La Ratatouille, had a true gift when it came to both pairing food with wine and for understanding his patron’s palate. He even ordered pot de crème for dessert. When he left there was a twenty percent tip on the table, as always. He didn’t stop to speak to anyone, and certainly didn’t smile at anyone, as he picked up his cane and limped towards the front door.

“Pleasant meal, Mr. Gold?” Antares, his chauffeur, occasional bodyguard and jack of all trades held open the back door of his town car.

“Is was, rather. You can take me home now, Antares. I’ll be staying in for the rest of the evening.” He let the man do his usual sweep of the house before setting the alarm; his employee lived above the garage, close by if he or his crack shooting were called for. Most people who knew him were wise enough not to try and mess with him, but there were a few who had yet to learn the lesson.

Gold settled in his chair with a book, but it couldn’t hold his interest. His mind kept wandering back to the restaurant and a pair of startling blue eyes that blazed with temper. It had taken four long months of patience, but finally he had met her. Unlike Colette Gusteau who made a turn of the dining room at least once an evening, Belle French was one hundred and ten percent focused on the kitchen. According to his friend Anton Ego she all but lived there when she wasn’t at the market in the wee hours of the morning gathering ingredients or at her temporary home sleeping. 

Gold himself had only seen her once before this evening, but it was enough to know that he needed to see her again. He’d accompanied Ego to an exclusive invitation only dinner welcoming the chef that was going to be taking over La Ratatouille coming year. Belle French had been wearing a dress the same blue as her eyes, which sparkled as much with excitement as they had with anger.

He wondered what they’d look like ignited with passion.

He hadn’t even talked with her that night, but he’d listened. He’d watched. He’d become infatuated.

There’s been too much flurry, during the Gusteau’s finale week in the States, but the first night Belle had taken over the kitchens he’d tried to invite her to his table to offer his compliments to the Chef. She was, Nolan had informed him, too busy to see anyone. The same happened the second night, and the third. It was then that he’d come up with the plan that had finally come to fruition tonight.

He’d sent back the soup.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m a chef, Mr. Gold. If there’s one thing I have to understand better than food it’s how to work with pressure and deadlines.”

“If this is a joke I don’t think it’s amusing.” Belle stood at the edge of Gold’s table, just behind the second chair. She was a little surprised to find that he’d returned, but mostly she was too focused on the note to think of anything else.

“I assure you that catering for two hundred people is hardly a joke, nor would the hospital we are raising funds for see it that way.” He sat as calmly in his chair as he had two weeks ago when he’d watched her taste the ratatouille. This time he was eating a choux à la crème; he’d waited until dessert before sending in the note with David. Since last week’s visit had passed without incident she’d only been waiting for something to happen. Rejected food had been expected, the note asking if she was interested in catering a gala event for two hundred people was not.

“You don’t even like my food.” It wasn’t just the restaurant’s food he had turned up his nose at; most of his meals had been prepared by her own hands and still he’d disliked them. “I believe unpalatable and sub-par were a few of your choice words.”

“A test,” he said with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “I wanted to see how you acted under pressure.”

“I’m a chef, Mr. Gold. If there’s one thing I have to understand better than food it’s how to work with pressure and deadlines.” He’d been sending food back for months; there had to be more of a reason that that, didn’t there?

“If you’re not interested, Chef French, I’m certain I can find someone else who is. Perhaps you do not feel up to the task?” He leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers together. “After all I am looking for someone who can do more than make food. I want a cohesive theme that will have everyone abuzz and distracted enough to open their wallets wide. The hospital’s equipment is dangerously outdated.”

“I haven’t said no.” Designing the whole theme was more than she’d expected when she’d read the note, even if she discontinued her gut reaction that he was playing a joke on her. She would have thought someone like Gold would have an event coordinator for such a task. This was big. She’d never been offered such an opportunity as this before, and if she said no she probably would be again. If she did it and pulled it off it would be a coup; even one event such as the one he was talking about would add a whole new dimension to her resume.

“You haven’t said yes either, dearie.”

“We close in half an hour. Why don’t I have another glass of wine sent out to you, on the house of course, and we can talk then?” She tried not to think about the ding that paying for a single glass of wine would take from her salary, considering his preferences. She, of course, couldn’t really let the restaurant cover the price if she was the one who would benefit.

“I’d rather have a cup of tea, thank you, but I can wait.”

“I’ll have David bring you out a pot.” Belle nodded abruptly before turning and heading for the kitchen. David was, fortunately, free so she asked him to take out the tea before heading for her office. She wasn’t surprised when Mary Margaret followed a minute later.

“Belle?” She slipped inside and closed the door after her. Belle didn’t mention the fact that one of her cheeks was covered in flour or powdered sugar, but it made her smile.

“He wants me to cater an event for him. A really big event. I don’t understand.” Belle shook her head. He complained about her food. And yet, it occurred to her, he always came back. He might send a dish back, but he still came every week. “I don’t understand him at all.”

“The Children’s Hospital Gala? That’s huge, Belle. Gold took it over when he moved here and it’s become this massive event. Sometimes famous people fly in, just to see it.” Mary Margaret’s eyes sparkled at the thought. “You have to say yes. It would be amazing, and you’d be brilliant at it.”

“Thank you.” In less than six months the woman had somehow become so important to her; the faith in her abilities mattered a great deal. “But I don’t know. It would mean spending a lot of time with Gold.”

“You could always threaten him with McDonald’s again. When Emma was little she used to beg to go there. I was so relieved the first time she said that she’d rather have one of David’s burgers.” Mary Margaret turned her head to glance out the window between the office and the rest of the kitchen, when her blonde teenage daughter was scrubbing a pot. She had her eye on a yellow bug, now that she was sixteen; her parents said she had to pay for half of it herself. Emma begged for extra shifts washing, and any odd job the staff could come up with to help her out. “He’s not the friendliest of people, but I think this is worth putting up with him for.”

“Maybe.” Belle leaned back in her chair. She was already running a kitchen, after all. how much more could she take? “I’ll think about it.”

II

She said yes, of course. He hadn’t been surprised. Only an idiot would have said not to the opportunity, and Belle French, he’d known from the first time he’d met her, was not an idiot.

“I look forward to hearing your proposal.” The restaurant was empty, only the two of them remaining. They’d discussed what was needed and had agreed upon terms, contingent upon his approval of her plans, of course.

“I’ll have something for you by the end of the week. I promise you your friends will all agree that this is the best gala you’ve thrown yet.” She held out her hand to him. Gold just looked at it for a moment; in all the time he’d been watching her, coming to the restaurant, they’d yet to touch. Considering that she made her living with her very capable hands he shouldn’t have been surprised at the firmness of her grasp, but he was. The warmth of her hand, though, was just as he expected.

“I don’t have friends, Chef French. What I have is business associates and society mongers that only feel compelled to donate to the less fortunate when it means their own pleasure and making themselves look good. Those are the people you will need to impress; fortunately they are so empty headed that it shouldn’t be difficult.” Friends. He’d all but forgotten what those were, Anton being a rare exception. She seemed to have a hard time believing that, though, from her confused expression. He huffed, a self deprecating laugh. “I’m a difficult man to love.”

“Maybe you’ve been hanging out with the wrong people.” She gathered up their teacups. “It’s late. I’ll walk you to the door so I can lock up.”

“I presume you are parked around the back. I’ll have Antares drive around that way so you don’t have to worry about more than one door.” He was sure she’d been in the restaurant alone many times, and wouldn’t appreciate the suggestion that she should not walk to her car alone. That didn’t stop him from wanting to escort her outside, both to see with his own eyes that she’s left safely and to spend a few more minutes with her. An hour today; it was perhaps more time than he’s had in all the time he’s known her.

She protested, of course, but didn’t do more than shrug when he insisted. As he made his call she rinsed their glasses; it’s the first time he’d been in the kitchen and he tried to take in as much as he could; this was her inner sanctum. Her home, he’s sure, more than the one she’s borrowing at the moment. The office door was closed; that was a room he’d like to see sometime.

“Did he know he’d be sitting outside for a couple of hours? Your chauffeur?” She had him stand completely still as she set the alarm.

“It’s his job. And he always has a book with him.” No one would think it to look at him, but the seven foot tall chauffeur and bodyguard had a love of Chaucer and Shakespeare.

“I can’t imagine having anyone wait on... fuck.” She stopped, dead, and stared at the little blue Honda. Looked, more specifically, at the front tire which was noticeably flat.

“Oh dear. It’s late enough that finding an open garage will be difficult. Why don’t I give you a ride home and you can have it seen to in the morning?” As much as he wouldn’t wish car trouble on her, he wasn’t one to waste a golden opportunity.

“I’m not a damsel in distress, Mr. Gold. I can change a tire on my own.” When she rounded the car to the trunk, though, she swore again.

“Problem?” It was hard not to smile. She was such a small and delicate thing, by looks, but there was nothing of the timid flower about her. He couldn’t help but think about other scenarios in which a good ‘fuck’ would sound appropriate.

“Yeah, there’s a problem. One spare tire is not going to help when I have two flats.” 

“That seems too much to be a coincidence.” One tire, after all, could be a nail in the road, a bald spot that gave away, a slow leak. Two was something that smacked of someone’s assistance.

“A prank or something. Sometimes I swear I should just put a bed in the office and not bother leaving.” She gave the tire a good kick. Gold coughed to cover a laugh.

“I really must insist that you let me give you a ride home. There’s no point dealing with this tonight, and losing sleep over it. The car can be towed in the morning and ready for you before it’s time to leave tomorrow night. I’d like to have my garage take care of it, if I might.” And check the oil, breaks, and a few dozen other things. The beat up Honda looked to be ancient; he couldn’t imagine it was in perfect condition.

“You’ve been a pain in the ass for months, Gold. Why are you being nice?” Her arms were crossed, pulling the wool coat tighter around her. At least she hadn’t said no.

“Perhaps I just wish to apologize,” he suggested, one eyebrow raised. Pain in the ass was hardly the worst thing he’d been called.

“Haven’t heard the word sorry yet,” she sniped back. 

“Perhaps I’ve turned over a new leaf. There’s nothing wrong with a fresh start, is there?” he queried. He certainly wasn’t about to admit why he’d really sent back food so often, nor should he crow about the success of his plan.

“That’s not why you’re doing the gala, though. Mary Margaret says you’ve run it for years.” She seemed to ignore his question, which might have been for the best. “You don’t seem to be too concerned with your reputation or anything. Google, Mr. Gold, yields some very interesting things.”

“I’m sure it does, dearie.” In fact he was well aware of both his own reputation and hers. There had been quite a bit written on her, despite her young age. 

“The suffering of children, though, is not a thing to be used for anything other than to try and get help relieving that suffering.” He didn’t regret anything in his business dealings, some of them unpleasant. He’d bent almost every rule there was, and many would consider him a brute, or beast. He knew there was talk, when it came to his reasons for throwing the gala every year. He didn’t care. If his notoriety brought more attention to the hospital, especially in the form of donations, then he’d do his best to be an even bigger bastard next year.

“Do you have kids?” Her whole body shifted, stepping closer to him, hands at rest at her sides. It struck him that is was almost the same look she’d given the ratatouille when he’d complained and she’d tasted it so carefully, analyzing the bite before declaring it perfect.

“No.” It was the easy answer. The one that protected himself. He didn’t have kids, but he’d had a son once. Strangely he found himself half tempted to amend his answer and explain. He didn’t. “A ride, dearie?”

“A ride, but I’ll take care of my own car tomorrow.”

“As you wish.” Antares moved to get out of the car, but Gold shook his head slightly. He could manage opening the door for her himself.

“Please, after you,” he gestured.

“Thank you.” She slid into the car and he closed the door behind her. It felt like a victory.


End file.
